


Sakat-tor M’aih

by blackgirlyoga



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Academy Era, Alien James T. Kirk, Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Compassionate James T. Kirk, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Empathetic James T. Kirk, Eventual Romance, Family Bonding, Family Relationships - Freeform, Found Families, Genius James T. Kirk, I'm so sorry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kid Fic, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multilingual James T. Kirk, Neglectful Winona Kirk, Out of Character James T. Kirk, Slow Burn, So many tags, Space Husbands, Starfleet, Starfleet Academy, Supportive George Samuel Kirk Junior, Tarsus IV, Trigger Warnings, Violence, Xenolinguistics, Young Hoshi Sato, Young James T. Kirk, Young Kevin Riley, Young Takashi Kimura, Young Thomas Leighton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23816644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackgirlyoga/pseuds/blackgirlyoga
Summary: James Tiberius Kirk experiences substantial hardship throughout his existence. His challenges are compounded by his diverse xenology. He expresses these feelings through a series of letters to his mother.Greetings Mother.No.Dear Mom,So many times I’ve called out to you and you have never responded. These letters serve as an expression of my once desperate need for your guidance, your support, your love. My growth, despite your continued neglect, has manifested, undeterred by the chaos that is my life.
Relationships: Ben Sulu/Hikaru Sulu, Christine Chapel/Leonard "Bones" McCoy, George Kirk/Winona Kirk, James T. Kirk/Spock, Takashi Kimura/Hoshi Sato, Thomas Leighton/Agriculture
Comments: 9
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This pulls a little bit from my experience as a child (intelligence wise), but I know it’s a little bit unrealistic. I really can’t write kids.
> 
> I was reading and writing at four (mind you, most of my letters were backwards), and I wasn’t a genius, so I figure as a genius alien, Kirk would be writing at a level far beyond what is expected of him. 
> 
> Think Vulcan intelligence, but just a little less formal?
> 
> The first letter is a little bit more refined, because Sam, who is also intelligent, kind of fixed it up while he wrote it down.
> 
> The others, written by Kirk himself, display his genius intellect, but are a little more stilted and hesitant.

The crew is instantly aware of Captain Robau’s death, his life signs dropping sharply on the view screen at the front of the Kelvin.

“Captain, they’re locked onto our signal.” George hadn’t expected Captain Robau to survive, but the instantaneous switch among the officers on the bridge, professional and polished in all their endeavours as senior staff about the ship, is still enough to throw him for a loop.

Another officer of the Kelvin cries out, “They're launching again!”

He doesn’t have time to dwell on his unpreparedness for the Captainship. He doesn’t have time to think about the loss of life, the loss of his Captain. He has a ship to preserve and a crew to save.

“Bravo-six manoeuvre fire full...” He’s cut off mid-command, a full volley of weapons slamming into the hull of the Kelvin. The metal creaks ominously in response, the circuitry of one of the consoles in his periphery sparking dangerously.

Screw it. “I'm initiating General Order Thirteen. We're evacuating.”

The helm officer doesn’t hesitate, flipping a switch on his console to initiate the automated order throughout the ship’s systems. “Yes sir!”

George pushes a button on his own console, enabling him to deliver his own evacuation order, “All decks, this is the Captain speaking: Evacuate the ship immediately. Get down to the shuttlecrafts and prepare for immediate departure. I repeat evacuate the ship immediately...”

* * *

Winona cranes her neck over the back of the wheelchair, glancing around with the hope that she can somehow see George, even though she knows that’s his voice over the ship’s intercom. She’s being escorted to the evacuation shuttle hangar by her regular medical personnel.

“That's George's voice. What's happening?”

M’ara, her midwife of Bolian descent, touches a hand to her skin, in something of a calming gesture.

“We’re evacuating the ship Winona. They don’t know what it is but we’re being decimated by an enemy ship. We’ll have to deliver in the shuttle.” She squeezes her shoulder gently, gesturing to the two Ensigns waiting at the end of the corridor. “Go!”

They have to pass through Engineering on their way to the shuttle hangar, and she feels a deep longing rush through her, before she quickly tamps down on her own emotions. She’s been off duty for the last four months and now she can’t help the overall feeling of helplessness consuming her as they make their way through her department.

She can hear an officer, probably Jackson scream. “Let’s go!”

Predictably, she hears Lieutenant Armin reply, in her typically nasal tone, “We’ve got a hull breach!”

What she wouldn’t give to be able to assist. To be out there, fighting. To help George.

They make it through Engineering and into the adjoining corridor, where M’ara finally hands her a communicator. “George?”

She hears his relieved exhale over the comm line, feeling the words before he speaks, “Oh thank god, you’re okay. There were hull breaches to the deck below yours and I thought—well, it doesn’t matter. I have Medical Shuttle Thirty-seven standing by. Get to it now. Can you do that for me sweetheart?”

Winona inhales deeply, ignoring the sharp pain in her spine, allowing herself some minute comfort from George’s deep baritone. “Yes, I can.”

She can sense his hesitation, his apprehension, before he continues. “Good. Everything's going to be okay. Do exactly as I say. Shuttle Thirty-seven, alright?”

“Okay George. But, it’s coming. The baby, **our baby,** it’s coming now.”

George huffs a small, choked breath out, before responding, “I'm on my way.”

She can feel the nervous energy flooding her system, and she hears the customary beeping associated with operations on the bridge. She doesn’t manage to catch the automated response from the console, but she can already feel George’s nervous apprehension morphing into despair that settles, pooling deep within her gut.

* * *

They finally arrive at the shuttle hangar, and they don’t hesitate, immediately wheeling Winona over to medical shuttle thirty-seven. There is debris blocking the shuttle, scaffolding of the Kelvin collapsing column after column against the onslaught from their unknown enemy.

“Remove that part now! Get to the shuttle! Move, move, move!”

She lets out an ear piercing scream, the contractions coming full force, chaos be damned. “Oh god, that was a big one! I can’t—”

M’ara cuts her off mid-sentence, her hands providing a calming pressure at the base of her spine. “I just need you to keep breathing, alright. You’ll be fine.”

“The baby will be fine too right?”

Her doctor offers a smile that is too wide, more akin to the baring of teeth, and not at all a reassuring gesture.

“Yes, the baby too.”

They finally make it inside the shuttle and Winona feels the apprehension increase almost tenfold.

She clings to the edge of the bed that they’ve transferred her to, glancing around sharply when she hears her husband’s voice feed through the speakers once more.

“Captain to Shuttle Thirty-Seven: Is my wife on board?”

She doesn’t see who responds, but she assumes it’s the shuttle’s pilot.

“Yes sir, she is.”

* * *

“Good. That’s good. I need you to go now. Do you hear me?”

George can hear the stilted pause from the other side of the comm line, before the pilot responds, “We're waiting on you, sir.”

“No!” He breathes, reigning in his emotions. He has to maintain control. “No, just go. Please.” He glances around the bridge, categorizing the blinking lights, the _warning lights,_ almost methodically. “Please take off, immediately. That’s an order.”

The hesitation doesn’t last quite as long this time, before he receives a response. “Yes, sir!”

The call doesn’t disconnect, and he can hear the shuttle charging up, Winona’s voice distinct even amongst the whirring of all the machinery. “No, wait. We can't go yet. Please, stop. Agh, agh.” Her hears the whoosh of a breath being released, before she speaks again. “George, the shuttle's leaving. Where are you?”

He takes another look around the bridge, steeling his resolve. “Sweetheart, listen to me. I’m not—I won’t be there. I’m not going to make it.”

The no echoes in his mind before she even speaks the word, “No. George you can’t!”

The feeling of entanglement, of operating as one, secure in her warmth—he would miss it.

“If I don’t do this Winnie, everybody dies. This is the only way you’ll survive.”

She needed to be alive for the children, for Sam, for—the baby.

“Please, don't stay on the ship, George. You have to be here. You can’t leave me alone; you have to be here!”

“The shuttles will never make it if I don't fight them off, Win. I have to.”

Her voice cracks. She sounds utterly broken. He almost gives in when she says, “I can’t do this without you George.”

“I have to, Win…”

He doesn’t hear her response, but he does hear M’ara, resolute as always, urging, “Okay, I need you to push now.”

* * *

This wasn’t any easier than it was the first time, and the raging battle falling down around their ears wasn’t helping matters even slightly.

Another groan—an agonizing scream wrenched from deep within her—and she gasps through the final push, the baby almost falling out into her midwife’s arms.

M’ara takes a moment—soft in a way that Winona is unused to—to wipe the unnamed baby, cleaning his warm skin delicately, his cries the only thing urging her to hand him over to his mother.

His cries resonate in the cold metal of the shuttlecraft, and Winona takes him into her arms.

She’s so distracted by this new sensation, different from even Sam, that she starts when she hears George’s deep rumble from the other side of the comm.

“What is it?”

“It's a boy. We have another boy.”

He is excited, she can tell, and his excitement manifests in, “A boy! Another boy!” A pause. “Tell me about him.”

She categorizes the baby’s features, committing them to memory.

“He’s you George. If Sam is me, then this one’s all you. He has your eyes, he’s—he's beautiful.”

An exhale.

“George, you should be here. This—” She chokes out the words, her heart clenching helplessly. “This is your family…”

“What are we going to call him?” His voice breaks on the final word, and she knows that in this, they are equal.

Another exhale. Her eyes are damp. “We can name him after your father.”

He offers her a wet chuckle, “Tiberius? Are you kidding me? No, that's the worst. Let's name him after your dad. Let's call him Jim.”

James Troy, her father, was a good man. Maybe Jim would be one too.

“Jim. Okay. Jim it is.”

_A delicate hand across her cheek. A solemn promise._

“Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

She tries to prevent the crack in her voice, but it’s overwhelmingly impossible.

“I—I can hear.”

She can’t contain the sob. It’s a broken sound and it echoes on the other side of the comm, every word from her beloved coated in turmoil.

“I love you so much. I love you...”

She holds her breath, doesn’t blink, and then she can feel it, his agony lasting for a millisecond before everything goes dark. 

Something inside of her cracks.

It doesn’t take long for it to shatter.

* * *

From the beginning, James has never had any trouble communicating with his brother. He knows that his brother will come if he calls, even if he doesn’t do it with his mouth. Sometimes, he just _feels,_ deep and encompassing, and then Sam will show up, and he knows he will be taken care of.

He doesn’t feel the same way around his mother. He often tries to grapple for her attention—emoting, screaming, fisting his bedding and haphazardly trying to make her understand that he needs her, wants her to hold him, to take care of him the way his brother does—but she never responds.

At first, he believes that maybe she isn’t his mother. But even as a baby, he can see her interacting with Sam, can feel the connection, the love that they share, and he **wants.**

He wants with a ferocity that would surprise any full grown man, but as a baby, he allows himself to feel.

There’s no control yet, but one day, there will be.

He smiles at Sam whenever he approaches, babbling incoherently, his baby-talk somehow understood by his older brother. Whenever Sam picks him up, he clings—small, desperate hands grasping and slapping at the soft, unblemished skin of the eight-year-old.

Sometimes, in his more coherent moments, he thinks he doesn’t need his mother, who never attends to his needs, who avoids touching him, who allows his care to fall into Sam’s purview.

He’s four months old when she touches him for the first time, and the experience is so jarring, filled with so much anger, fierce and harsh and _cold,_ that he bursts into tears. He never longs for her touch again after that first acrid experience.

He curls around Sam each and every afternoon following the lingering experience, his throat closing off, and he wakes his brother with his gasping cries every night. Sam’s attempts to soothe are clumsy and inexperienced, but they work, and he never sleeps alone after that.

* * *

She leaves before he turns one. He doesn’t miss her.

Sam does, and he tries to comfort him in the best way he knows how to, with baby-kisses and face slaps and warm smiles.

The two people who take care of them now are nice and warm, but they don’t connect the way Sam does, the way she **did.**

Sam’s skin changes. He does not understand why, but it does.

Instead of soft, milky white, he sees deep purples, dirty greens and awful yellows. Whenever he touches him, the coloured flesh is warm in a way that’s unnatural. Instead of gentle laughter, he hears hushed groans and hissing, as if his breath is being pushed out through too close teeth.

He does not understand what is happening, but the relationship changes.

_“_ — _Acting out…_ — _seeking attention.”_ When he is older, he will understand what those words mean. For now, that’s what the older voices say about Sam when he’s not home.

_“He wants his mother to come home. He keeps getting into fights, I don’t know what to do anymore!”_

They’re angry. He can feel the anger, but there’s something else, lingering beneath the surface.

_“I don’t know_ — _maybe—maybe we should call her home.”_

They’re sad.

Sam is sad too.

The only person not sad about the entire situation is him. He doesn’t understand why he should miss someone who doesn’t take care of him the way that she should.

But they miss her, and so they call her, and she comes home.

Things get better.

_But then they become so much worse._

* * *

Sam gets better when she comes home. He doesn’t see the ugly colours on his brother’s face anymore, and his affections are once again filled with bright laughter.

Sam feeds him chocolate pudding and talks about their father _—_ a man he has never met—his tone filled with reverence and awe and genuine affection.

He misses this father that he has never known, so much more than he misses the mother who he has always seen.

Their father _—_ George Kirk Senior _—_ the man who shares Sam’s name, saved mother’s life while he was still inside of her. Without this man, he would not exist.

Because of this, he loves unconditionally and unknowingly, this shadow who he will never meet.

_He is almost a year old—eleven months and twenty-one days—when she tries to replace the shadow._

Sam tells him about Frank, a new presence in the house _—_ the replacement, who their mother shows interest in.

When Sam speaks to him about Frank, voice tense and hard, he does not hate.

He just hopes _—_ hopes that this will fix his mother. Hopes that maybe with Frank, she will find a space for him in her heart at last.

They marry. He spends the entire service on Sam’s warm lap, swathed in affection and cuddles _—_ his baby antics a soothing distraction for his brother who, for some reason, has begun feeling cold.

_He will not understand until he is older._

After they marry, she leaves the atmosphere once more _—_ a research trip, longer than the first one, expected to last for ten months instead of two _—_ and leaves them alone with Frank.

Frank smiles and his little body quivers.

He offers to touch and his vulnerable mind quakes.

Sam doesn’t have to leave the house to come back with the ugly colours any more.

For the first time, _he desperately wishes for his mother to come home._


	2. Years 1 - 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letters begin.

**Year One**

_Dear mommy,_

_I’m still learning my letters, and I’m not very good at talking just yet, so Sammy is writing this letter for me. I didn’t really want to write it, but he says he’s writing one, so I should too. Apparently, it’s something that we should do whenever we experience too many emotions. A method of coping. He says meditation’s best, but I don’t sit still enough for that yet._

_It’s nice having a brother who I don’t need words to talk to. He’s my favourite._

_Well, he’s also my only brother._

_I’m still too young to climb the stairs on my own, and Sam is trying to avoid moving right now, so we’re on the floor in the living room._

_He doesn’t want me to write to you about it, even though you’ll never read this, but he’s really hurt. I never understood it when I was younger, but all the colours only show up when Sam’s been hit._

_I think I liked it better when he used to leave and come back with the ugly colours. Before, home was safe. Now, every time I hear a door slam, or the refrigerator opening, I want to cry for Sam._

_Sometimes I do cry._

_I hate Frank. I know Sam loves you, but I hate you for leaving us with him._

_Right now, it hurts to listen to Sammy breathe. We’re only downstairs because he’s in too much pain._

_Sam wants me to only be angry at Frank. But how can I do that when Frank wouldn’t have even been a part of our lives if it wasn’t for you?_

_I’m hoping that the next time I want to write—or the next time I **need** to; I’ll be better at forming my letters so I can write the letter myself._

_I don’t want Sam to be hurt anymore, and it always hurts him whenever I think about you._

* * *

“THERE’S ALWAYS AN EXCUSE FOR WHY MY COFFEE ISN’T READY IN THE MORNINGS! WHERE ARE YOU GEORGE?”

Frank is the only one who doesn’t call Sam, _Sam._

Everybody knows his name is George Samuel Kirk, but no one ever calls him that, because…well, _y’know._

But Frank uses the name sort of like a weapon. He knows how much it hurts him, to be called by his dead father’s name.

He does it anyways.

Frank doesn’t bother him, because he’s pretty much too young and too short to reach any of the important things, so Sam is his only target.

“I ALREADY MADE YOU YOUR COFFEE! YOU DRANK IT ALL!”

They argue every morning.

Every morning, before Sam leaves to go to school, he and Frank argue about something that Frank claims Sam always forgets to do.

They go back and forth for a while before something crashes into the floor.

Then things go eerily silent.

Sometimes after this, Sam will come up to the room for bandages, or a washcloth to wipe off the blood.

Usually he’ll head straight through the door, hoping to avoid every extra second that he doesn’t have to spend in Frank’s presence.

Jim watches him sometimes, through the upstairs bedroom window. He watches as he hauls up his rucksack, taking a moment to shoulder it firmly, the lines in his back tense with anger.

Sometimes he stands outside long enough for the tension to morph into something different, and he’ll see Sam wipe at his face, knows that he’s scrubbing away tears, and his indifference towards their mother will redouble into something more volatile.

He’s only a child, a baby really, but he understands things in a way that’s unique to him and his brother.

He can’t talk, not well at least, and he can’t force his body to comply, but his brain is always running a mile a minute, and his thoughts are more complex than even Frank’s.

He can’t take care of himself yet, can barely manage to climb in and out of bed on unstable, fawn-like legs, so Sam always leaves non-perishables just within reach in their bedroom.

Jim asks him ‘why’ once.

_“I don’t want you anywhere near him. Maybe when you’re older and you can climb the stairs easily, or move more quickly,” —to get out of the way, he doesn’t say— “but for now, I don’t mind taking care of you. I’ll leave enough for you to eat during the day and when I come back, you’ll get more. If he tries to look for you, or call for you, and I’m not home, don’t answer, just hide. I don’t trust him. Not around me and definitely not around you.”_

Sam comes home, always cleaner and less bloody than when he left, and pauses in the kitchen for less than a minute before climbing the stairs to their room.

He’s always asleep when Sam comes home, because he only sleeps with Sam, or when Frank is out of the house.

Frank is never home when Sam gets back from school.

Sam pushes a hand against his small face and he burrows against the warm skin, drowsy and warm from his nap. Sam props him up in his equally warm lap, and pokes at his mouth with a bit of banana, which he happily munches on.

He’s still drowsy when Sam tells him about his day at school, and he manages a few ‘whys’ and ‘ow comes’ and one ‘really’, because Sam is caught _—_ as always _—_ somewhere between mother, father and brother, and is always giving him opportunities to practice his speech.

He falls asleep, tucked comfortably between Sam’s arms, to the sound of his laboured breathing.

* * *

**Year Two**

_Dear mother,_

_Is it possible to miss someone, while also wishing that you would never see them again?_

_I really want you to come home, but not for me. I want you to come home for Sammy._

_They’re not just bruises anymore._

_Sometimes when Sam comes to bed now, he’s bleeding._

_Sometimes he doesn’t sleep because he’s in so much pain._

_…_

_I don’t miss you, but I want Frank to be gone._

_I don’t miss you, but I want Sam to stop hurting._

_I don’t miss you, but I want my brother to be safe._

_I hate you, but without you, Sam is so lonely._

_I hate you, but without you, Sam is always hurt; he’s always broken._

_I hate you, but I need you to come home._

_Why won’t you come home?_

* * *

James starts kindergarten before he’s fully three years old, and he’s both better and worse off for it. He spends less time at home and he has to interact with Frank far less.

The biggest disadvantage is that it’s all very boring. The only work he found challenging were the ones that developed his motor skills, but everything else was boring.

He did make a friend though.

Jasmine was an older girl at his kindergarten, and she was just as protective of him as Sam.

She shared her fruit with him at lunch time, and she was really smart. They didn’t really speak that much, mostly because she couldn’t speak as well as he could yet, but also because he could really _feel_ and understand her.

She was very expressive, her facial expressions conveying so much thought and emotion that she didn’t really ever need to use words to make him understand.

He spends his days at kindergarten trying not to get in trouble with his teachers teaching Jasmine new words, and gorging himself on fruit. The only downside to kindergarten was that he got home after Sam, and Sam usually managed to provoke Frank in some way. This was always the case.

One afternoon, after being dropped home by the shuttle, he waddled his way into the house and up the stairs to their shared bedroom to find Sam curled up, almost wheezing on the floor.

He doesn’t see Frank anywhere, so he doesn’t hesitate to rush over to his older brother. He’s not actually awake, but his breathing is still harsh. James tries to turn him over onto his back, but he’s really heavy and stays curled up, despite his best efforts.

Instead, he pulls a pillow off the edge of their bed, and does a substandard job of tucking the pillow underneath his brother’s body. He curls up beside him on the floor, hoping to provide the same type of comfort that he usually provided for him.

* * *

**Year Three**

_Dear mother,_

_Frank took a lady home. I guess this is what happens when you marry a man and then abandon your two children into his care._

_She’s nicer than he is._

_But that’s not saying much, because Frank sets the bar pretty low._

_She smokes a lot. It bothers my eyes and it hurts Sam’s head._

_Frank likes her. They make a lot of noise in the night. Sam doesn’t sleep anymore. When I try to talk to him about it, he just pulls a pillow over my head and tells me to go to sleep._

_We hardly sleep now, but I am grateful to her._

_She smokes, but she’s a distraction, and I can touch Sam’s skin without feeling the unnatural warmth._

_…_

_She hit Sam._

_She hit him, because he tried to get her to stop smoking._

_… Why do you keep allowing this to happen to us?_

_WE NEED YOU TO COME HOME!_

_..._

_ad._

_They almost burnt the house down._

_…_

_I still want you to come home._

* * *

Sam throws another towel into the bathtub, brushing the front of his shirt in an effort to get rid of all the soot. James watches him, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he does.

This was the aftermath of an upstairs fire, a la _the lady._

Sam had asked her to stop smoking when she’d first arrived at the house, and disregarding him completely, she continued.

This fire was the result of her allowed her cigarette to fizzle out in Frank’s bed, instead of putting it out like a rational person.

“Sammy, are you okay?”

He hadn’t wanted to speak up, but Sam was kind of fighting the towels he was throwing into the bathtub.

He doesn’t respond, just turns on the tap and stalks past him out of the bathroom. “Hey, Sam, wait!” He hesitates for a moment, watching the bathtub fill up for a moment before following Sam down the stairs to the living room.

Sam doesn’t waste any time after getting to the first floor, engaging immediately in a confrontation with Frank’s… girlfriend?

Sam has always been good at pushing buttons, and she doesn’t hesitate to push right back.

“I DON’T KNOW WHY EXACTLY YOU THOUGHT THAT SMOKING IN BED WAS A GOOD IDEA, BUT YOU DON’T LIVE HERE, SO WHAT EXACTLY GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO–”

The slap seems to freeze time itself. Frank was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching the confrontation impassively, and James could tell that Sam was getting angry. Maybe he should say something? Maybe do something to stop this from turning into an actual fight?

“Wait, no –”

“James.” He stops at the foot of his stairs, as he always does, whenever Franks says his name in that tone of voice.

“If you step over here, I promise you that you’ll regret it.”

He wanted to argue, because it was one thing for Frank to abuse them, night and day, their mother had left them in his custody.

But this strange woman, appearing out of nowhere, who almost burned down the kitchen, doesn’t have the right.

Despite this thought, he does stop, because Frank has never hit him before, and he never wants to experience it, a thought that makes him feel extremely guilty because he knows what Sam has to endure.

She doesn’t raise her hand again, and neither does Frank, the two of them sauntering out of the room together.

Sam still hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor, and he isn’t sure what to do to fix any of what just happened.

He can hear the bathtub overflowing upstairs, and he worries about Frank’s reaction, but that pales in comparison to his concern for his older brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just agree that I suck at writing children and move on with all our lives. Thank you!  
> Thank you to the people who commented on the last chapter, the reason why I haven't replied is because I'm scared to even read them. 
> 
> I know, I know... I have no self-confidence.
> 
> https://blackgirlyoga.tumblr.com/ OH, I have a tumblr! I post there more than I post here.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a new story, that has been in development for a few weeks now. Quarantine will do that to you.
> 
> Let me know what you think?
> 
> Also, I don't own the characters!


End file.
